My Brother, Killed in Battle: Personal Journal

Powerful Essays
I am trapped in a world full of disappointment. Everything is wrong, but no one seems to notice. Maybe they suspect, but they don’t ask. No matter how loud my screams become, nobody pauses and listens to the words. It’s hopeless. This life, this fantasy, this dream. The thought that maybe someday I’ll be okay. That maybe someday I’ll feel happy. It’s dangerous. It’s treacherous. It’s disappointing. My heart knows I’ll never be the same. But my mind thinks perhaps it could happen. What if one day I meet someone who understands and helps me? I doubt that would happen, though. No one knows what I’ve gone through. They say they do, they claim knowledge that doesn’t exist. I’ll never forget that day, three months ago. The day two men in army uniforms came to our doorstep with blank looks upon their faces. I had never felt true pain until that dreadful day. They spoke a simple three sentences to my mother, with me peeking around the corner, staring. “Ma’am, are you Mrs. Thomson? Mother of Private Daniel Thomson?” My mother nodded expectantly, as though she knew exactly what words were to come out of the man’s mouth. “Ma’am, on behalf of the Secretary of the Army, I regret to inform you that your son Daniel Thomson was killed in action in Afghanistan this morning as a result of wounds received from hostile action.” They bowed their heads to my mother as she bawled. The tears poured down like the tea into her glass just a few minutes earlier. But now that glass fell to the floor and shattered. Though I doubt it shattered nearly as much as my heart. I was only peeking around the corner to see the men in the army uniforms. I really had no interest in what they were saying until I heard, “Daniel Thomson was killed.” But I didn’t cry... ... middle of paper ... condolences, but I wasn’t listening. I stared at the casket of my brother, placed in the ground. I wished I could be with him and tell him how much I loved him. If my tears could build a stairway, I would walk right up to heaven and bring him back. So I finally decided to write out my feelings, as my counselor always suggested I should do. But I still know that no one will ever know my pain. They think they do, but what do they know? To me, losing him is like dying without being able to let go of life. I am forced to live every day knowing I’ll never really be alive. It’s like my heart has been torn to shreds, and no matter how hard I try to sew up the pieces, there will always be a rip here or there. Someone once told me I needed to forget him if I ever wanted to be happy. They don’t understand that it’s hard to forget someone who gave you so much to remember.
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